Welcome

Welcome to Writing Dirty, a collection of the writings of Jack Stratton.

A warning: the stories within often contain graphic depictions of sex and BDSM.

The easiest way to navigate this site is to take a look at the table of contents. If you are looking for some highlights, some of my most popular stories are Carolyn Blushes, The Wrong Smith Girl, and Ménage à Text.

Some personal favorites are Knowledge Base – a Sherlock Holmes tale, Wake Up – an example of a particular fetish of mine, and the Mister McIntyle’s Secret series – a Mad Men-esque tale of a secretary who will do anything for her handsome boss.

There are over one hundred pieces of writing on this site, fiction and non-fiction. If you would like to compensate me for my work you can purchase one of my books on Amazon, contribute directly via PayPal, or use your imagination.

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Faux Hunt

The first in a series I call “The Gentleman’s Club” which involve the debaucheries of one John “Randy Jack” Sackville, son of the third Earl of Amherst, and the other members of the Club De Lancey, a London gentlemen’s club.

I’m not sure it makes sense, but I like it.

Without further ado I give you:

The Faux Hunt

Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, seven stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.

Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.

She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing ever eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.
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The Boy

To call him handsome was a misnomer; he was pretty. A delicate face, a somewhat chiseled chin, warm brown eyes, always clean shaven and looking slightly younger than his twenty-something years. He had the grace of an old time actor. Cary Grant in leather pants.

The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.

The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.
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Wake Up

Somewhere in between dreams I heard the shower start.

Opening my eyes some time later I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.

There were the distant smells of coffee, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.

For a few moments sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves.

Seconds or minutes or hours later I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat.
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